


Skyrim Ficlets

by Whitefox



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Civil War, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Dawnguard, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Friendship, Gen, Snark, Thieves Guild, main quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whitefox/pseuds/Whitefox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various snapshots in the life of Rhea - wood elf, Dovahkiin, archer and thief - and her unsuspecting sidekicks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Chance Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote these mostly to amuse myself and flesh out the world a bit more while I was playing Skyrim. Was going through old stuff and I figured I might as well post them, on the off chance that they amuse someone else too. Definitely not meant to be taken seriously. Each chapter is an expanded/imagined scene that I encountered at some point during my run.
> 
> First up: the beginning of the Thieves quest line.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite her best efforts, the Dovahkiin makes a new friend.

_Province_ _of Skyrim_

_Market Square, Riften_

_4E201_

_3 Heartfire_

 

She was being followed.

He wasn’t hard to spot, which meant her tail was either incredibly bad at his job, or just didn’t care.  Riften was a busy city at three in the afternoon on a weekday, but even after fifteen minutes in the city she’d overheard enough to know that if she was attacked in broad daylight, she’d probably be on her own.  Even the guards seemed likely to look the other way, depending on who it was doing the attacking.  And judging by the easy carelessness of her pursuer…

Rhea twitched her right hand, readying a fire spell as subtly as she could.  Her bow was no good at short range, and daggers were so predictable she didn’t even own one.  Her sword was too big to do subtle, and was currently occupied gathering a good layer of dust inside her bag.  But magic…magic was unpredictable, unexpected – a wild card.  No one expected to see magic from someone in armour, as if being twiggy and fragile and wearing a dress were essential to wielding magic of any sort.  And the sad thing was, in 99% of cases this was true.  But not because of any weird arcane requirements, because Rhea for sure hadn’t encountered any; no, she rather thought it was because mages in general were just incredibly lazy bastards.

And stupid.  But then, _everyone_ was stupid.

With a last half-glance to track  her tail – yes, he was still there and yes, he was still obvious – the wood elf rammed a shoulder into the door of what appeared to be Riften’s tavern-inn-thing, _The Bee and the Barb,_ and managed to squeeze inside.  As soon as the door banged shut she sidestepped and flattened herself to the wall.  Ignoring suspicious looks from tipsy customers, she coiled the fire around her hand and waited. 

And waited.  Ten seconds…twenty…he _was_ right behind, her, wasn’t—

"Hello, lass.”

Rhea set a table on fire.

It was a small fire, and had trouble getting a good purchase on the battle-scarred, ale-soaked wood.  Thus it was easily slain by Rhea’s leather boot and a bucket of water from the bartender that managed to land more on Rhea than the fire.  Judging by the Argonian’s expression, Rhea suspected she was perfectly satisfied with that. 

“Out.  _Now_.”

Rhea didn’t bother arguing.  She fled.

Of course, her tail followed her, because that’s what tails do.

“Bit of an itchy trigger finger there, eh lass?”

Rhea glared, but found the anger suddenly hard to maintain against the gleeful humour in his eyes.  He was…not _horrible_ looking, this close.  And it looked like he didn’t want to kill her or anything after all.  Giving up, she huffed and sagged into the flimsy rope fence, shaking out her hand.  She thought maybe she’d burned herself slightly.  “You’ve been following me practically since I got here.  What do you _want?_ ”

“Just to talk lass, that’s all.  I think you’ll find we have quite a bit in common.”

Rhea narrowed her eyes.  People who seemed this friendly were always up to something.  “And what exactly makes you think that?”

The stranger smiled in such a disarming way that he must have logged some mirror practice.  “It’s all about sizing up your mark.  I can tell you’re carrying quite a bit of gold, and I’d wager that you didn’t come by all of it…legally.”

He didn’t sound threatening, and Rhea was more perplexed than anything.  Despite some…sketchy activities back in Cyrodiil that she may or may not have been responsible for, she hadn’t had to resort to anything illegal to get by here in Skyrim.  The adventuring life really seemed to suit the land of ice and tundra.  None of her gold was stolen, she didn’t have a bounty on her head, and yet somehow this man…  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The strange man actually seemed disappointed, and Rhea was horrified by the way her own heart sunk in response.  “Oh, come now, lass.  We’re both better than that.  I’ve got a proposition that I think will be very profitable for both of us, and will only take a minute of your time, but if you’re going to be like that about it…”

Rhea felt her eye twitch.  Truth was, she had never been _pushed_ into thievery, even back in Cyrodiil.  Many thieves were desperate, just trying to get by in any way they could, but she had always had other options.  She’d chosen to do it, she’d _enjoyed_ it.  The thrill of it, the adrenaline rush when she escaped detection by a hair’s breadth, the evil joy in pulling the wool over stupid people, in relieving them of wealth they didn’t deserve.  The way it challenged her, pitting her wits against the job in unpredictable circumstances, dancing circles around marks who never even heard the music.  And she felt terrible admitting it with everything else going on in the world right now, with the dragons and the civil war and with more cash in her pocket than ever before, but…she missed it.

“Aha!” the man exclaimed, eyes bright.  “I knew you’d come around.  Now, all I need you to is a simple bait and switch, take a ring and plant it in a certain someone’s pocket…”

Rhea sighed, knowing protesting further was a lost cause.  “All right, all right.  I don’t suppose I could get your name, at least?”

The man smiled that disarming smile again and Rhea felt her heart twist in response and felt lost.  “All you had to do was ask, lass.  The name’s Brynjolf.  And here’s what you need to do…”

 

 


	2. Honeyside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you buy a house, you buy more than just the house. Apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by my struggles to get rid of the unwanted housecarl that came with Honeyside (the player house in Riften). IRL I ended up deleting her from the game, but that's not a terribly realistic solution...

_Province_ _of Skyrim_

_Honeyside, Riften_

_4E201_

_29 Heartfire_

Rhea turned the key in the door to _her_ house and listened as the tumblers released with a satisfying, familiar _snick_.  This whole having-a-key business was different, but so far she was loving it.  No checking over her shoulder constantly as she gave herself a headache listening for the catch, no need for lockpicks, no need for darkness…  She stepped into Honeyside under the watchful gaze of a guard and locked the door behind her just because she could.

Meeko made a beeline for the crackling hearth fire, and collapsed in front of it with a _whuff_ of joy.  Rhea made a mental note to get a rug for her dog sometime soon, and set about exploring the rest of her house, starting with the impressive buffet laid out on the kitchen table.

“Welcome to Honeyside, my Thane.”

Rhea jumped about a foot in the air, and had her bow drawn and an arrow half-nocked before she even identified the speaker.  The stocky brunette Nord woman standing in the bedroom doorway looked unruffled, her hand far from her axe hilt and her brown eyes cool and steady on Rhea’s.  Rhea, who was sure her own eyes were rolling like a spooked horse, didn’t feel terribly Thane-like.

“Please don’t call me that, I’m just Rhea,” she stammered, was immediately annoyed at herself for reacting to _that_ first, _like_ that, and only got more annoyed when she noticed Meeko, who hadn’t even bothered to get up, begin to wag his tail.  She cleared her throat and tried again, sharper this time and more befitting of a lawful homeowner addressing a trespasser.  She ought to know what that sounded like, at least.  “Who in Oblivion are _you_?”

“I apologize,” said the unknown woman, not looking particularly apologetic.  “I did not mean to startle you, Thane.  I am Iona, your housecarl.”

Rhea blinked.  She was pretty sure only half of that last word was an actual word.  “House…carl?”

“Indeed, my Thane.  I live to serve you, in whatever capacity you may require.”

“…Um.”  Rhea blamed her new ‘family’ completely and totally for the way her thoughts leapt into the gutter at that.  But was there really any other way to interpret that?  Especially as most nominated Thanes were men?  “That’s…uh, well that’s…”  _By the eight, girl, get it together!_ “I don’t require any…er, services.  But, uh, thanks.”

“Very well, Thane.  Until such a time as you require my services, I shall be here.”

Rhea stared.  “What… _here_?  In my house?  My _private_ house, that I just coughed up _all of my savings to own?_ ”

Iona didn’t seem to think that required a response.  Rhea disagreed.  “I have a _key_!” she cried after a long and fruitless pause, as if this was the argument to end all arguments, universally understood and unassailable. Because to Rhea, who had picked countless locks but had never, ever, owned a key she hadn’t stole, who treated her battered iron house key as a treasure beyond all gold and riches – to Rhea, it really, really was.

Iona seemed completely unfazed by this as well, and in retrospect Rhea wished she had never found out why.  “As do I,” the stocky Nord said, and pulled out an identical iron key out of her pocket.

Rhea froze, not giving away so much as a blink as her heart shrivelled and died inside.  _This must be what infidelity feels like._

And then she heard it: the familiar _whirr-click-whirrr_ of someone trying to pick a lock.  _Her_ lock. 

Rational thought left the building – if it had ever been there to begin with.  Snarling, Rhea called fire to her hand and jerked the door open, fully intending to roast whichever ratway-bait thug had decided to rob a Guild house.

Brynjolf fell through the door. 

Rhea’s fire guttered out and guilt bit a good chunk out of her anger.  She’d lost count of the number of times she’d nearly scorched the guy now.  If there was one person in all the world who was welcome in her home, whatever shape that might take, it was him.  And yet…

“Why are you _breaking in_ to _my_ house?!” Rhea screeched, because she still had quite a lot of anger left and being deprived of opportunities to burn things _pissed her off_. 

“Uh, okay,” Brynjolf said, wide-eyed.  “So you’re disproportionately angry.  Do I want to know why?”

Rhea was tempted to say _because some thieving scum was trying to break into my private just-paid-my-entire-savings-for property_ , but she was now coherent enough to recognize insane levels of hypocrisy.  Feeling silence was probably a better idea, she jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

Instead of moving from his spot directly opposite the fuming elf, Brynjolf leaned dangerously far to the side until he finally caught a glimpse of Iona.  “Oooh, and who is this?”  Rhea watched in mute horror as her mentor/partner in crime/potential significant other gave her… _servant_ a once-over.  “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone, lass, but I must say…you have _excellent_ taste.”  He grinned.  Rhea glared death, and tried to remember why it would be a _bad_ idea to shoot an arrow in his knee.

She had a tendency to forget, usually after an extended absence, just how much of a _jerk_ Brynjolf could be.  This reminder would last her a good long while.  She breathed in harshly through her nose and tried to pretend he had never spoken.  “She says she’s my house-carl.  And she won’t go _away_.”

Brynjolf’s look of confusion was a balm to her battered soul.  She decided to go for the grand finish.  Leaning forward and widening her eyes, she let a bit of her own trauma show as she said, “She has a _key_ , Brynjolf.”

Brynjolf looked scandalized.  Rhea wanted to hug him. 

“But…it’s your house, lass,” he said, clearly uncomprehending.  “You _paid_ for it.  Fair and square.  In writing, no less.  Even _I_ don’t have a key.”

Rhea fought the urge to analyze why exactly he thought he was entitled to a key or, even worse, offer Iona’s key to him on the spot, and instead focused on what a relief it was to have someone understand.  At least she wasn’t crazy, though she supposed it could still be a thief thing, this need to hoard and protect what little was rightfully theirs.  But no; normal people valued privacy too, surely.  Trespassing was a real crime, after all.

Rhea cleared her throat and tried on her best angered-homeowner voice.  “Listen, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but this is my home now.  Just mine.”  _And potentially his._   “You need to leave.”

A slight frown appeared on Iona’s face, marking the most expressive Rhea had seen the Nord.  “I am your housecarl, Thane.  As long as you reside here, Honeyside is my home too.”

Rhea felt a bit of hysterical panic rising, but managed to force it down.  “You’re not listening.  I don’t _want_ a housecall, or whatever.  I will never require your services – I dismiss you, release you.  You’re not needed.  Now _leave_.” 

Iona’s frown had disappeared, and now she just looked vaguely puzzled.  “You can’t dismiss your housecarl.  Every Thane must have a housecarl.”

The hysterical panic broke free.  “ _Then maybe I don’t want to be Thane!”_ Rhea’s outburst seemed to startle everyone, including Rhea herself.  She deflated immediately, dropping her gaze to the floor where Meeko had finally stood up and was whining at her in concern.  “I just want a home,” she whispered. 

Everything was still and silent for a long moment.  Then Rhea heard a sudden sharp crack on the floor, followed immediately by a gasp.  She looked up in time to see Brynjolf stepping away from an indignant Iona, an oddly hard look on his face and a metal key in his hand.

“You can’t just…” Iona spluttered.  “The jarl herself named me housecarl for the new Thane, that key is _mine_ —”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Brynjolf interrupted quietly, but with a hard note in his voice that Rhea had never heard before.  “My lass paid over twelve thousand septims for this house, and that means it and all keys to it belong to _her_ , by law.  You are a visitor here, dependent on her hospitality to stay, which she has just withdrawn.  You are now _trespassing_.  Leave, or we will call the guards.” 

Rhea stared, shocked into silence by a number of things, not the least being the surrealism of hearing Brynjolf, of all people, threaten to _call the guards_. Close behind that was surprised pleasure at the _my lass_ comment, dismayed bafflement at the fact that he knew exactly how much her house had cost ( _?!_ ), and some twisted pride at his knowledge of trespassing laws.

Iona seemed unsure, which was still more than Rhea had hoped for.  She took a half step back to form a united front with Brynjolf, who crossed his arms and actually glared.  Rhea didn’t think she’d ever seen him glare before, and she had to admit the sight was slightly terrifying.  Meeko finally seemed to catch a clue and overcome his naturally friendly nature, and began to growl. 

Iona glared back, but at Brynjolf only, and didn’t come close to the thief’s level of intimidating.  “The Jarl will not approve.”

“Then that’s between her and I,” Rhea snapped.  “Get _out_.”

And with a last insulted glare at Rhea that put the elf in mind of her brief (and unpleasant) schooling, Iona did. 

The two thieves remained motionless for a long moment after, just staring at the door, both exhausted from the unexpected conflict.  Finally Meeko broke the silence with a painfully high whine and flopped back down in his spot in front of the fire.

“…You might want to change the locks, lass.”

“Done.”


	3. Off To Save the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vilkas gets a new story to tell, Meeko is sad, and the Dragonborn goes off to save the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately post "The Fallen", so spoilers if you haven't finished the main quest. I hadn't done much of the Companions line at this point, but I grabbed Vilkas as backup for this quest anyway since he was close by. It occurred to me later that he would've had no idea what he was agreeing to. :3

_Province of Skyrim_

_Dragonsreach, Whiterun_

_The Great Porch_

_4E201_

_27 Sun’s Dusk_

Vilkas couldn’t believe the last ten minutes of his life.  He was no stranger to adventure – he’d been with the Companions as far back he could remember, had killed a giant at fifteen, and just yesterday had helped to defend his hometown from a dragon – but this…this topped all of that.  Easily.

He hadn’t thought much of it at first when the sometimes-Companion dropped in and asked for his help with something.  The little wood elf had joined up a few months back on Aela’s referral and had helped them out with a few jobs since then, but was always in and out.  She seemed busy with other things usually, but she was a skilled archer and so far the Companions had been grateful for her bow when she was around to lend it.  Aela seemed to be quite taken with her, and would gladly harp on about how great it was to have a real shield-sister, at the slightest provocation.  Personally, Vilkas just hadn’t seen enough of her to judge, and knew she definitely didn’t have enough of a presence or commitment to be considered for the Circle, no matter what Aela wished.  Farkas had once joked that she was a ‘part-time’ Companion, and Vilkas thought that fit quite well. 

She was shady with the details this time and seemed nervous or at least unsettled by something, but he didn’t feel like pressing and didn’t know her well enough to be sure.  He was having a lazy, boring afternoon and couldn’t remember if she’d ever asked for theirhelp before, so he agreed to lend her his blade. 

He wasn’t sure how he got from there to _this_ , but he did know that the part-time Companion had been much busier than any of them had ever guessed.  Aela would be absolutely unbearable when she found out her favourite shield-sister was the Dragonborn.

Said Dragonborn had apparently finished her conference with her captured dragon (talking!  dragon!  _captured!_ ) and was now headed his way.  Vilkas hadn’t known quite what to do with himself when the battle had ended abruptly with a metal collar around the dragon’s neck, and after a minute spent indulging in pure stunned shock, had retreated back near the doors where he was well out of range of the creature’s jaws.  Since she had been as close to its head as possible (and looking perfectly at ease there), she had a way to walk.  He took the time to study her.

The single most striking feature about her at the moment was her dress.  Pale green and white with a respectable mud stain on the bottom, and made of sturdy peasant cloth, she looked more like a dragon’s sacrificial maiden than the Dragonborn.  Vilkas wasn’t sure if her appearance was somehow part of the plan or not – for all he knew, looking harmless was vital – but he still couldn’t wrap his mind around the reality of anyone fighting a _dragon_ in peasant garb without dying horribly.  The silver jade-studded circlet around her forehead killed any illusions of poverty, as did the pitch black bow and matching arrows strapped to her back.  The bow in particular was adorned with curling silver birds – ravens, perhaps – and Vilkas wondered at their significance. He was sure he’d seen them on other armor of hers before, or somewhere else…they seemed important. Around her neck hung an axe-like pendant that Vilkas recognized as an amulet of Talos; odd, but he supposed the Dragonborn was an exception to many rules. 

She looked tired, and grim.  Her chestnut brown hair hung in exhausted tangles to her shoulders, but there was a tension in her face that Vilkas didn’t like at all.  Her huge shaggy wolfhound haunted her steps as always, and gave Vilkas a sloppy lick when they closed in.  Like recognizes like after all, and the twins had always been dog people.

“Listen, Vilkas,” she began in a weary tone that immediately set off alarm bells in his head, “I’m sorry I got you dragged into all this without warning you properly, but I just…felt like I needed backup, and I wasn’t sure you’d believe me.”  Vilkas snorted at the understatement and the elf smiled wanly at him.  “I guess maybe I should’ve called all the Companions in on this, huh?”

“Nah,” Vilkas waved her off.  “I’ve been itching for a new story to hang over their heads for months.  Do them good to realize I’m not just a talking bestiary.”

She chuckled, as he’d hoped.  “There is that.”  She paused, her face growing serious again, though without the scary tension she’d worn before.  “There’s one more favour I’d ask of you – and you don’t have to do it if you’ve had enough, I’d completely understand, it’s just—“

“Woah, slow down,” Vilkas rumbled, understanding better why the part-time Companion had never asked for their help before, if it caused this kind of insecurity.  “You’re a Companion, part-time or not.  We look after our own.”

She blinked at that, no doubt confused by the nickname, and then smiled brilliantly.  “Thank you, Vilkas.  Really.  But you don’t even know what I want yet.”

Vilkas gestured around at the scorched courtyard and the collared dragon with an air of disbelief.  “It can’t possibly be worse than this.”

She grinned.  “No, definitely not.”  She glanced down at her hound for some reason, who whined, and then back up to him.  “I have to go…somewhere that Meeko can’t follow.  I know he’ll try anyway, but it’s too dangerous.  I need you to take him home, where he’ll be safe.”

For some reason, Vilkas was startled by the thought that the flighty wood elf actually _had_ a home.  “…Where’s home?”

“Riften.  I know it’s far, but you can take Allie, my horse, if you can handle her.  If not, she can stay here; I bought her from the Whiterun stables, they’ll take care of her.  You don’t even have to go yourself, if it’s too far, just…make sure it’s someone you trust, who can take care of themselves.”

Vilkas sighed.  “No, I’ll go.  I’m sure Aela will want to come too, business has been slow lately.  If there’s anyone who can handle a spirited horse, it’s her.” 

“I wish I could see that battle,” the Dragonborn grinned, but quickly sobered.  “Right.  Once you get to Riften, go to _The_ _Bee and the Barb_ ; there should be a woman there, Sapphire.  If she’s not inside she’s usually hanging out somewhere nearby.  Tell her you need to speak to Brynjolf.  It might get a little shady at that point, but if she or anyone else gives you any trouble, just tell them you’re under my protection.  That should get them to back off.

“When you find Brynjolf, you’re done.  He’ll make sure Meeko and Allie are taken care of.  And…”  She hesitated, and then fished out a battered iron key, attached to a long chain around her neck.  She lifted the chain over her head and handed the key over.  “Give him that.  He’ll know what it’s for.  Tell him…”  She paused again, and Vilkas saw something like pain or sadness cloud her eyes.  Finally she huffed a breath and smiled wryly at nothing.  “Tell him I’ve gone to save the world.”

Vilkas blinked.  “Is that really…?”

She laughed, a bitter, jagged sound, and it occurred to Vilkas that she was scared.  “Looks like.  Crazy, isn’t it?”

“Completely insane,” he agreed.  He knew the legend of the Dragonborn, had heard the reality of Alduin’s return, had just _seen_ her Shout a dragon out of the sky, but this…the Dragonborn headed off to parts unknown without even her loyal wolfhound to watch her back…this was insane.  This was suicidal. 

And it was undoubtedly their only chance.

Vilkas stepped back.  “Gods speed, Dragonborn.”

She actually blushed.  “Please, don’t call me that.  I’m still just Rhea.”  She glanced down at her dog, who hadn’t budged from her side, and sighed.  She knelt and rummaged around in her pack for a minute, and withdrew a few leather scraps which she proceeded to fashion into a makeshift leash and collar.  Once complete, she handed the end to Vilkas, and knelt in front of her dog again.

“Be a good boy for Vilkas and Aela, all right?  They’ll take good care of you.”  The dog whined and licked her face pathetically.  Her face crumpled a bit, and she hugged the wolfhound around the neck.  “You know you can’t come with me, bud.  It’s too dangerous, and you would never make the flight over.  So go with the big guy and watch over Bryn and the others while I’m gone.  Nine knows they need it.  I’ll be back soon, I promise.”  She let go quickly, stood up and stepped back, blinking non-existent tears out of her eyes.  Meeko tried to follow, but Vilkas held tight to the leash and the dog grudgingly stilled.

“Thanks again,” she said, to Vilkas this time.  He shook his head.

“Thank _you_.  May the eight be with you, Rhea.  Go save the world.”

She grinned back, and it was only a bit unsteady.  “I’ll do my best.”

And then she was signalling to the guards, who were releasing the chains on the collar and setting the dragon free, and she was climbing up on the huge beast’s back as it flapped its massive wings and took to the sky—she was gone.

Meeko began to howl.  Deep inside Vilkas, his beast raised its muzzle and joined in.  


	4. Assassins in the Flagon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dovahkiin meets the new leader of the Dark Brotherhood. She wishes she hadn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for the Dark Brotherhood quest line, and somewhat for the rest of the main quest and the thieves guild. In my 'verse, the Khajiit character I did the Brotherhood stuff with was NOT the Dovahkiin, so she and Rhea could co-exist.

_Province of Skyrim_

_The Ragged Flagon, Riften_

_Thieves’ Guild Cistern_

_4E201_

_4 Evening Star_

“The Emperor assassinated…can you believe it?”

“And right after that decoy was killed – I thought they said the Brotherhood was wiped out!”

“And the Emperor’s cousin, murdered at her own wedding…”

“Makes me think we need to get into this assassination business…”

“Gentle _men_.”

All three men huddled around the wooden table jumped as one and peered owlishly up at the newcomer.  The lantern she was holding blinded them, perhaps on purpose, but they didn’t need to see her face to know they were in trouble.  She dropped the lantern onto the table with a crash and they winced.  Only one had the presence of mind to hastily straighten the lantern and prevent the table from catching fire.  Everything seemed to be more flammable since the change in leadership.

“Now,” the elf purred, placing both hands on the table and leaning forward, “what were you saying, Thrynn?”

The bulky Nord’s eyes widened and his beefy hands gripped the table a little too hard.  “N-nothing, Guild Master.”

“I see.  And the rest of you?  Wish to share?”

A series of mute headshakes met her evil eye, and a satisfied smile spread across her face as she slowly straightened.  “Well then.  I’m sure you all have better things to do than chatter about nothing, hmm?  Or shall I tell Vex that you want more work?”

Frantic headshakes now, along with sputtered denials as the men shoved back their chairs and scrambled to escape.  The skinniest leapt the moat in his haste.  But just when they thought they were safe, a silken voice called—

“Oh, and gentlemen?  Murder is _forbidden_ in the Thieves Guild.  Let me catch you talking about the Brotherhood like that again and you’re out.”  She turned and flashed them a smile, evil and smooth as only elves could manage.  “Just so we’re clear.” 

The three thieves bolted out of the cistern.

Rhea sighed and let herself slump into one of the recently vacated chairs.  As if saving the world from the World _-_ Eaterwasn’t enough, she got to come back to _this_.  She’d only been gone what – a week, two weeks tops?  And in that time the Dark Brotherhood had murdered the Emperor’s cousin, assassinated a decoy Emperor, been betrayed, wiped out and burned to the ground, and then had somehow risen from the ashes to assassinate the Emperor again, the real one this time.

Her life had never been this insane back in Cyrodiil. 

Not that Rhea was a big fan of the Empire, quite the opposite – they’d almost _chopped off her head_ , one tends to hold a grudge over things like that – but still.  This was Skyrim, not _Morrowind_.  You couldn’t just have the Emperor killed because you had enough money and you felt like it.  You just couldn’t.  The world didn’t work that way.

Despite her habit of breaking the law on a regular basis, Rhea was discovering that she held a rather odd faith in the rule of law, the sanctity of order.  Just because she broke the rules didn’t mean everyone else could.  The assassination was an attack on that faith, a crack in a pillar of belief she hadn’t known she was relying on.  It left her feeling off balance, and she didn’t like it.

To make things worse, the Guild had always had strong ties with the Brotherhood, dating back to the founding of both organizations.  With both organizations struggling to survive, neither had been in a position to maintain these connections, but now it was a different story.  The Thieves Guild had come into riches and prosperity the likes of which had not been seen in an era, and the Brotherhood had apparently bounced back as well.  Now, people were remembering old ‘friends’.  Rhea didn’t like it one bit.  She knew there was a contract out there with her name on it, having fought off more than one attempt, and she wanted nothing to do with assassins, particularly ones who could kill an _Emperor_ in cold blood.  It was dangerous, poisonous, and it only made people hate the Thieves Guild more.  Rhea wanted her Guild respected, not slandered and hated; not feared.  If it was up to her, the Guild would cut ties with the Brotherhood immediately.

Perhaps fortunately, it _wasn’t_ up to just her; even the Guild Master needed her Deputy’s agreement on some matters.  Brynjolf had assured her numerous times just how unfathomably bad it would be to snub a lawless guild of assassins just getting back on their feet and trying to rebuild a reputation as fearsome and unstoppable, and his logic was sound.  As Rhea rather liked being alive, especially with Alduin now dead, she let it be.

Didn’t mean she had to like it.

"All right, lass?”

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.  Or rather think, not speak, and Brynjolf was more like a mischievous imp or something than the devil, though some poor conned souls out there might disagree.  Rhea shrugged and tried a smile. 

“Just more Dark Brotherhood talk.  Makes me feel dirty.”

Brynjolf quirked a smile.  “Interesting set of morals you got there, lass.”  But behind the jest Rhea recognized something more serious, something that sensed and spoke to her real and deep uneasiness with the Brotherhood’s rise.  She and Brynjolf never talked about serious stuff – _feelings_ and crap – but they didn’t need to.  They saw through each other’s façade of competence and humour to the real emotions and motivations beneath, and responded in kind.

Rhea wondered when they’d become so good at reading each other.

“Drinks on me?” Brynjolf asked, sensing (as always) her dangerous slide into thinking too much.

Rhea snorted.  “Drinks are _always_ on you.”  All elves were notoriously light drinkers, but even amongst the fey peoples the Bosmer stood out as lightweights.  A light drink for a Nord could easily put a Wood Elf into a coma.  It took a _lot_ of time and effort for a Bosmer to build up enough tolerance to handle even the lightest Nord mead, and Rhea just couldn’t be bothered.  As a result, she contented herself with fruit juices whenever she spent time in the Ragged Flagon proper.  The juices became increasingly spiked the longer Brynjolf was around, as the other Nord would keep slipping drops of his own mead into his companion’s mug in a vain attempt to build up her tolerance.  Eventually it got so Rhea could taste the alcohol, and would stop drinking entirely.  It just tasted _bad;_ honestly, Rhea didn’t understand the point.

Rhea trailed Brynjolf through the tunnel to the Ragged Flagon, but they both stopped short just before stepping into the open. 

Strangers.  There were strangers in the Flagon.

This wasn’t unheard of; unusual, certainly, but it did happen occasionally.  Most often they were new recruits, which the Guild saw a lot more of these days, and sometimes curious visitors to Riften wandered down to take a peek at the public face of the shadow Guild.  But these people…something about them set Rhea on edge, made her long for her bow.  She wished Meeko were here, instead of resting back at Honeyside; while the wolfhound’s friendly nature made him mostly useless at intimidation, he never failed to detect truly hostile intent. 

There were two of them, and they seemed to have a definite purpose.  The man, an Imperial by the looks of him, was dressed in a jester’s outfit and was sitting on a bar stool, spinning occasionally. There was something strange about his posture, but Rhea couldn’t pinpoint what it was – he just seemed _off_ , in some indefinable, visceral way.  The female, a dark, lynx-like Khajiit, sat at a table with Delvin.  She was dressed in loose-fitting black and red clothes – _the colour of dried blood_ , Rhea observed randomly– and had her back to Rhea, her tail swishing gently.  Delvin didn’t seem uncomfortable with his drinking companion, but Delvin never seemed uncomfortable with anything, and Rhea knew better than to trust his character judgements anyway. 

“Do you know them?” Brynjolf whispered to her, and the fact that he felt the need to ask at all completely validated her own misgivings.  If Brynjolf was suspicious too, that was all the proof she needed.

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it,” she hissed back.  One of the cat’s ears twitched and swivelled back towards her as she spoke.  Rhea blinked in disbelief – she’d known Khajiit had good hearing, but really? – but the stranger was already turning around.  Blood red cat eyes met her own hazel, and Rhea jerked as if shot.

Madness – joyful, _sadistic_ madness.  Pupils just a little too wide, and little too jagged; mouth hanging a little bit open when it had no reason to be, fangs sharp and shining and just a little stained; fur by turns sleek and matted and torn in no meaningful pattern.  

And emblazoned on the black fabric over her chest, a single handprint.

Fire roared into her hand without any conscious thought, but her step forward was blocked by a solid body.  A large hand closed around her own, and her fire guttered out silently. 

“Let me handle this,” Brynjolf said.  Rhea, still trying to understand what had almost happened, nodded and twisted her hand around to hold his like a lifeline. 

The cat was in front of them now.  “Many thanks for the assssisstance, thievess,” she hissed at them.  Her eyes flicked away from Rhea’s to Brynjolf, and Rhea felt her Deputy tense.  “And congratulations on your…deserved successss.”  The clown abandoned his stool and prowled over to join them.

Brynjolf nodded stiffly.  “Thank you.  And just who are you?”

The cat grinned in a truly unsettling way, open-mouthed and showing off her fangs to full effect.  “This one is Arissss.”  She looked as if she would say more, but the clown cut in first.

“She is the Listener, oh yes, oh yes she is!  And Cicero is the Keeper!  Listener and Keeper, together again, skipping through fields of poppies, painting all the world in re-ed…”  The clown dissolved into giggles at this point, but the Khajiit ignored him.  Rhea caught herself stepping back instinctively, and forced herself to step up to Brynjolf’s side instead.  The Nord gave her hand a grateful squeeze. 

Rhea hadn’t understood any of that beyond the Khajiit’s name, and decided to do something about it.  She cleared her throat.  “What’s a listener?”  She caught Brynjolf’s warning look too late.

It was like a switch had been thrown.  The clown’s giggles abruptly ceased and he shot upright, a dangerous light in his eyes.  “ _What’s a listener_ , she asks,” he growled, with a disturbing lilt still in his voice.  “What’s a _listener_!  Oh, Mother, Cicero will teach her, Cicero will _show_ her…”  The clown took a step forward and reached for something undoubtedly murderous, while Brynjolf’s hand sought the hilt of his own blade and Rhea readied Chillrend…

“Cicero.”

She said the name weird – of course she said the name weird, Khajiit said _everything_ weird – basically just a choppy hiss with an _o_ tacked on to the end.  But the single serpentine word silenced the clown immediately; he went from a murderous rage to sad and chastened in a second, and was back to harmless insanity in the next.  It was surreal.

“This one is sorry,” Ariss hissed, still grinning and definitely not looking sorry at all.  “The servant is…sensssative.  Even this one is never sure what might…set him off.”

Rhea swallowed.  “Right.  Well, I think we’ve helped you as much we’re able,” she glanced at Delvin, who nodded back, “so I think it’s time you moved on.”

The cat’s eyes widened for no apparent reason, still grinning, still fixated on Rhea.  “Of course.” 

A moment ticked by; another.  They didn’t move.

“She means _now_ ,” Brynjolf prompted.  The cat’s gaze ticked to Brynjolf momentarily and back, and her grin widened impossibly.  And then, quick as a flash, the assassin kitty darted forward and Rhea had a panicked second to watch her life flash before her eyes and come to terms with her imminent demise and…and then something warm and wet was touching her face and the cat had _licked Rhea on the nose_.  While the Wood Elf sputtered in incoherent rage and confusion, the Khajiit took off and disappeared into the Ratway, the clown a giggling shadow in her wake.

Dimly, Rhea became aware of hands on her shoulders.  “Lass, are you…?”

“There’s something _wrong_ with her,” Rhea growled.  Her body was tense as a whip and she couldn’t seem to unclench her fists.  She should have reacted, should have drawn her sword, or punched her – hell, even _bit_ her – but she’d just been too stunned…who _does_ that…?

“Sshh lass, I know, but she’s gone now…come now, let’s go have that drink we agreed on, warm you up…”

Rhea sagged into Brynjolf’s comforting warmth at her side and allowed him to lead her over to the bar.  He ordered their usual ale/apple juice combo, and she didn’t even complain when he dropped a liberal amount of ale into her juice. 

“See, now that,” Rhea said, clutching her spiked apple juice, “ _that_ is exactly why I don’t want us dealing with assassins.”

“Ah, but better the crazies are on our side, lass,” Brynjolf noted.  “Wouldn’t want to see that clown loose in the cistern.”

Rhea shuddered at that mental image, and the worse one her mind immediately upgraded to.  “Better the clown than the cat.”

Brynjolf seemed to consider that, then shivered and downed another gulp of ale.  “Aye,” he agreed, and Rhea knew he’d seen it too.  That…something missing in the cat’s eyes.  The clown at least seemed like he might have been normal once, he was so obviously insane, but the cat…there was something vital missing there, something universal gone bad, something viscerally _wrong_.  Just remembering made her skin crawl.

Delvin dropped onto the stool to her right, and Rhea turned on him immediately.  “How long were you talking to her?  What did they want?  How could you _stand_ it?”

Delvin shrugged and signalled for his own drink.  “Wanted somethin’ fenced, is all.  Discretely, o’course.  Gave ‘em a letter o’ credit for it.  Didn’t take long.  An’…”  Delvin paused, took a large swig from his newly arrived drink.  “Been doin’ business with the Brotherhood longer’n I can remember.  Ain’t none of ‘em right in the head.  Guess you get used to it.  Tune ‘em out, like.”

Brynjolf and Rhea shook their heads in sync.

“You’re made of stronger stuff than me, Mallory,” Brynjolf muttered.  Delvin heard him anyway and laughed.

“As if we didn’t know that already, ya pansy.”

Brynjolf just snorted into his drink.

“I never got an answer to my question,” Rhea sighed, already mellowed from her ‘apple juice’.  “Who _was_ she?”

“That,” Delvin Mallory said with a horrible little grin of his own, “was the assassin who killed the Emperor.”


	5. Conscripted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You don't always get to choose your battles, but at least you don't have to fight them alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Civil War spoilers, maybe? A little bit? Basically my attempt to reconcile my character fighting in the civil war even though the Imperials tried to chop her head off. :/

_Province of Skyrim_

_Honeyside, Riften_

_4E201_

_12 Evening Star_

 

~*X*~

 

**Rhea Mahariel;**

**By order of his Imperial Majesty**

**EMPEROR TITUS MEDE II**

**As a dual citizen of Cyrodiil and Skyrim and thus, of the Empire**

**With no reported family, occupational or civic duties**

**You are hereby conscripted into the Imperial Army**

**Report to Legate Rikke**

**Castle Dour, Solitude**

**for assignment.**

 

~*X*~

 

Rhea knew she would start catching flies soon, but she couldn’t seem to close her mouth.  She couldn’t look away either, but no matter how long she stared, the harsh black words refused to change.  A breeze fingered through her hair but the sturdy parchment nailed to her door didn’t even twitch.  Rhea glanced at the nail in dismay; did they _have_ to use such thick iron?  It would leave a hole for sure, and splinter the wood…she’d have to replace that plank…

_No reported family…no duties…_

Meeko barked, startling Rhea back into the world.  She realized she was still standing like an idiot with her key in hand, half-outstretched toward the door, in the middle of the street.  Meeko barked again and scratched at the door, and Rhea shook herself.  With a bit more aggression than was probably required she tore the paper off her door, leaving the nail for the moment, and let herself into her home.

Of course, as a member of the Thieves Guild with a house in Riften, her home was not really her own, and hadn’t been for some time.  Rhea barely spared Brynjolf a glance as she shuffled past him to flop down on her bed, tossing the parchment on the table as she went.  Meeko, a very simple creature who had been exposed to the cold for far too long, flopped down in front of the fire and passed out.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the cozy house were the crackling of the fire and Meeko’s snoring.  And then:

“Isn’t this Emperor dead?”

Rhea groaned into her pillow.  “ _That_ ’s what you choose to pick on?  In that entire letter, you take issue with the fact that they haven’t changed the stationary yet?”

Another long pause.  The fire popped.

“I didn’t know your last name was Mahariel.”

Rhea squished her pillow more firmly over her face, as if she could prevent the next question from reaching her.

“Wasn’t that the Champion of Cyrodiil’s name, back in the Oblivion Crisis?”

“Yes, but you’re still missing the _point_ ,” Rhea groaned, coming up for air.  “The point being my _conscription into the army_!”

Brynjolf blinked at her.  “You’re not going.”  Somehow he made it sound like a question and a statement of fact, all at once.

Rhea collapsed back onto her bed to stare at the ceiling.  “Well what choice do I have?  I may be the Dragonborn, but I was a citizen of Cyrodiil first, before I even heard of Skyrim or dragons.  I’d have to reject my citizenship to get out of this legally, and then they’d accuse me of siding with the rebels and I’d never get out from under that label.  And I _won’t_ support the Stormcloaks, they’re racist and stupid.”  She paused, focused on making her voice sound less whiny.  “Besides, it’s not like I can tell them I _do_ have duties as head of the largest organized crime syndicate in the country.  I’m sure that would go over well.  I’ve got no _reported_ duties, just as they said.”  On the whole, Rhea wasn’t sure the bitterness was an improvement.

Brynjolf didn’t seem to think so either.  “Come on lass, you said it yourself.  That’s the only way to get out _legally_ , but you control organized _crime_.  Just…disappear for a while.  I know a few good places we could go, and still keep in touch with the Guild.  Vex and Delvin already handle most of the everyday riffraff.”   

Rhea took note of the ‘ _we’_ and smiled.  But…  “And let the rest of the world see the Dragonborn as a deserter of the Empire, and take it as a sign to flock to the Stormcloaks?  I didn’t want to get involved in the civil war, but they’ve involved me whether I like it or not.”

Brynjolf looked like he’d swallowed something bitter.  “But lass…they almost _chopped your head off_.”

Rhea screamed a little into her pillow.  “Don’t remind me!  I just want this war over with!”

Another long pause, but this one felt weirdly intense and prompted Rhea to look up.  She found Brynjolf watching her with some sort of sparking determination in his eyes.  The look seemed vaguely familiar, but Rhea usually associated it with close brushes with death.  It seemed out of place now.

And then Brynjolf said, “I’m coming with you,” and Rhea reconsidered. 

She opened her mouth to protest, knowing it would do no good, but Brynjolf overrode even that token attempt.

“No, lass.  No arguments.  You and me, we’re in this together.  I still haven’t forgiven you for buggering off on your own on that bloody suicide mission to ‘save the world’ as you called it – damn near had a heart attack when that lad o’ yours gave me your key.  Not about to let you do it again.” 

Rhea opened her mouth, and managed perhaps a small squeak before she got steamrolled again.

“You say no and I’ll just enroll myself.  The address is right here, and if they’re conscripting I bet they’ll fall right over themselves to get a volunteer as skilled as yours truly.  You can’t stop me, and you’d best not try.  Got it?”

Her voice, when it finally came out, sounded very small.  “I was going to say, you can take Frost.”

“…Oh, lass.”  His face crumpled a little and he barked a raspy sort of laugh, as if he was physically expelling the rough accent he’d fallen back into.  “We do know each other well, don’t we?”

“We do,” she agreed, with a weak smile.  “Like how I know you’re stubborn and presumptuous with absolutely no respect for privacy, but I love you anyway.”  Her eyes widened.

His eyes ballooned as well, but then a wide, smug grin spread across his patchy face and the cloud of doom that was Serious Conversation dissipated.  Rhea wasn’t sure this was better.

“You do, do you?”

Rhea groaned and mushed her face back into her pillow.  She didn’t think wood elves could blush, but it felt like her face was having a good go at it.  Maybe if she hid long enough, he’d get bored and go away.

A moment later those hopes were dashed as she felt the bed dip beside her.  Rhea stiffened, but didn’t move.

“I’m not going to push you, lass.  I know you better than that, and I know you know _me_ better than to think I would.  I can wait.”  Rhea felt a hand begin to card through her hair and slowly let herself relax.

“I know,” she whispered, though she wasn’t entirely sure the sound would make it through the pillow.  She turned her head just a bit to give her next words a bit more breathing room.  “Thank you.”

Brynjolf huffed a laugh, and she felt it puff through her hair.  “Don’t thank me for being hopeless, lass.  I don’t much have a choice in the matter.”  His hand paused, and Rhea could practically feel him thinking.  “But if you really want to thank me…”  His hand trailed to the tips of her hair and tugged, “you’ll let me stab the first ruddy soldier who stares at you.”

Rhea batted his hand away and rolled over to glare at him properly.  “No stabbing, Brynjolf!”

“Just a little!  It wouldn’t even have to scar.”

“ _No_ stabbing!”

“But how else will they learn?  Just a prick, really, that’s all…”

“Brynjolf,” Rhea tried to growl, but she was pretty sure the helpless smile on her face rather ruined the effect.  It was hard to be properly disapproving when she actually liked the idea herself.  She wondered if that made her a bad person, and if she should be more disturbed that it might.

…Meh.  She was a thief, after all; she’d stamped down the more finicky morality demons ages ago.

Brynjolf was still talking.  “…and don’t go looking _back_ at any of them, either!  We’ll be having _words_ then…”

Rhea stared a moment, and then scrunched up her nose in disgust.  “Ew, Bryn!  They’re _Imperials!”_

Brynjolf blinked, clearly not getting the connection.  “You do realize they look quite a lot like me?”

Rhea shook her head.  “No, no, you northern people, you’re…freedom and danger, wild ice and snow and independence.  Wolves and dragons.  The Imperials, they’re…well, they’re nothing, really.  They’re not _themselves_ , they’re conformists, like bees, like ants, like…well, insects.  They’re _boring_.”

Brynjolf looked like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.  “You…really do see the world differently, don’t you?”

Rhea shrugged, as well as a lying down person can shrug.  “Can’t really judge.”

“Well then I’m telling you, you do.  So what am I?  A wolf?”

Rhea nodded.  “Yep.  Definitely a wolf.”

“And no one’s more dragon than you, lass.  I guess that makes us a good match, eh?”

Rhea huffed a laugh.  “I guess so.”

“Glad that’s settled, then.  Because, lass, no matter what…”  He reached down to grip her hand, and tugged on it until she looked up to meet his eyes and stayed there long enough to believe him. 

“No matter what, we go the rest of the way together.”


	6. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are worse than death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during "Bloodline", so spoilers for early Dawnguard.

_Province of Skyrim_

_Castle Volkihar, Haafingar_

_4E202_

_17 Morning Star_

 

In the depths of Castle Volkihar, surrounded by clan and court and the blood of his prey, Lord Harkon offered his greatest honour to a small, blood-spattered wood elf and waited for an answer.

Rhea’d tangled with vampires before.  She knew how to fight them, and knew that fighting was your only option if you encountered one, assuming of course that you would prefer not to die.  And moreover, she knew enough not to be overly frightened by them; she could call fire to her hands to exploit their weakness to sunlight, and use her gifts as a Nightingale to cloak herself in darkness more securely than even the creatures of the night themselves.  In sleep, Meeko provided unfailing protection against nighttime assaults. 

Which was why she’d agreed to lend a hand when the Dawnguard came recruiting, and brushed off Brynjolf’s offer to tag along.  She and her Deputy had supported each other through the chaotic final days of Skyrim’s civil war, and together they’d returned to Riften with matching scars and shiny new medals as war heroes, but with all limbs intact.  Rhea doubted she’d have managed that much alone.  Still, that had been months ago, and her adventurer’s heart had started itching to get back on the road again, at least for a little while.  And although Brynjolf’s offer had been sincere, she knew he wasn’t quite ready to leave the sanctuary of the Guild headquarters just yet.  Which was for the best, really; one of them had to be a homebody and watch over the fledglings while the other went gallivanting off into the wilderness.  She’d promised to bring her best friend/fiancé a dusty souvenir and rode off on Allie, with Meeko at her heels.  Neither of them had thought much of it.  She’d expected to be back within a week.

The Lord was still waiting for an answer.

Rhea cast around hopelessly for an escape route, but she truly was surrounded.  Still dressed in her Nightingale battle armour, she’d originally lingered in the shadows until Serana (the _traitor_ ) drew attention to her and dragged her out into the light.  Now the black outfit only made her stand out more in the flickering firelight, and with the court circling her and the Lord’s gaze fixed unwaveringly on her small form, there would be no escape.  She did still have her bow, for what good it would do her; there were just too many, each one supernaturally fast, and Lord Harkon himself reeked of power.  Even outside the circle of candles, red eyes glimmered where the skeletal hounds prowled. 

And blood, blood everywhere.  In puddles and streams on the floor, clinging to discarded bones and dishware; in the goblets and plates on the dining tables; in the feral grins of the court vampires, staining teeth, lips, cheeks, eyes; even in her own clothes and hair, mixing with the vampire dust already coating her and forming a hellish sludge. 

Even Meeko’s reassuring warmth was absent, though he’d been just as covered in blood the last she’d seen.  The dog had been denied entry into the castle, and for once Rhea hadn’t protested; the vacantly hungry looks they’d been getting from the vampires even then had made her doubt her ability to keep her dog safe.  She’d sent him back to the boat, to wait for her, but she was starting to regret that decision now.  She’d forgotten how awful it felt to be totally alone like this.

“Well, mortal?”

Rhea twitched, but had no answer.  She tried to focus, consider her options.  No matter what Harkon said, she very much doubted the vampires would let her leave if she denied their ‘gift’.  More likely they’d just eat her, and be done with the troublesome outsider who knew too much.  But to accept…

Rhea knew vampires didn’t _have_ to kill to survive.  Most just didn’t care enough to try.  But it was possible.  She also knew that vampirism could be cured – early stages, at least.  While with the Companions, she’d heard tell of a cure for the more permanent syndrome as well; but whether it truly existed and how to find it, she wasn’t sure.  She also suspected that this ‘gift’ she was considering was not normal vampirism at all – and being a Lord sounded like it would be much harder to cure, if such was even possible.  Harkon had a daughter, for starters, something Rhea had always thought was impossible for the undead. 

Yet, if she refused…

She imagined returning home as a vampire.  In the dark of night, though admittedly that wasn’t too unusual for her.  Riding a horse that shied away from her own rider.  Pulling the chain to the secret passageway with hands like claws.  Drifting down the tunnels into the cistern with feet that didn’t have to touch the ground.  Seeing into the dark corners of the Guild that the light didn’t reach.

Reuniting with her family.  Letting Meeko identify her new smell, and watching as he recoiled in confusion and fear.  Seeing disgust, anger, betrayal, fear, in her brothers and sisters’ eyes as one by one they recognized the red gleam in her own.  Watching as they turned away or bowed their heads.  As _Brynjolf…_

Some things were worse than death.

“With respect, Lord, I must refuse your gift.”

Harkon’s words were a hiss in the night.  “So be it.”

And then everything went dark.


End file.
